No Longer: Mail Jeevas
by erbby17
Summary: Matt reflects on the night he was brought to The Wammy's House and the preceding years, memories he hasn't even dared to visit in over 13 years...


**Erbby's** gotta new story out! Actually, this one's been on dA for a few weeks now...but here's a short story about Matt's past, kind of a spin-off of my Mello fanfic, "_The Otherside_," but this story can live without it (except to the tiny reference to "_The Otherside_" at the end). So, please enjoy this tale of Matt's past...it's sad...

**Disclaimer**: No, I do not own Death Note or any other rights pertaining to that story. There is some _**violence**_ in this story, but that's about it. Please enjoy..!

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Was it…raining that night?

Yes…yes, it was. I can remember the rain, the soft drizzles, the pounding downpour, and the feeling that I had died, completely died. I sat cold, wet, and bleeding in that alley way, clinging to something in my hands…a child, a boy – my brother.

"Dear Lord, child, are you alright?"

An old man's voice called out to me from the main street. I didn't respond at first, just sitting there; if I felt dead, I may as well play dead.

"Oh no," he said once more before running over to me. "Child!" He fell down on his knees into the puddle, the splash of the rainwater making me flinch. With my movement, he sighed. "Oh God, you're bleeding," he said, looking into my eyes, though I could only see out of one of them, and not even that well.

"Am I?" I managed to give a half smile. Pausing, I gazed at the black sky above me and the building beneath it. "No, it's just the rain." I remained as calm as possible. The old man's worrying only made me feel remotely alive; I had to destroy that feeling.

"Rain's not red, my boy," he said, chuckling. He glanced over me and my condition, his attention almost immediately averting to the child in my arms. "The little one in your arms…who is he?"

My brother…"I don't know." Yes, what if I lied? What if, instead of dying, I just lie about everything? "I just…found him."

The old man looked over the boy's face, only to gasp in honor.

"He's dead," I said, holding back the sobs. It didn't matter if tears emerged – the rain was a good cover – but I had to at least choke on the cries to destroy the relationship that had been between us.

He took the boy's pulse, his face filling with dread as each second passed. Solemnly, the man took off his jacket to wrap up the dead boy. After a moment of silence, he stared at me.

"What happened?"

My slight smile made its way back to my face. "How should I know? I just found him."

He closed his eyes and shook his head, as if to scold me. "No, son, what happened to you?"

I tilted my head towards the main road, watching as the cars whizzed by and the crowds stumbled along the streets. "It's my birthday, I think," I said, nonchalant yet uncertain. "They said, 'Happy Birthday, Mail'." I paused, the perfect bluff situated in the palms of my hands. "Does that make me Mail?"

There was more silence and rain as the old man kept his stare on me. "I need to get you to a hospital."

-

The car ride from the hospital was just like the street scene, filled with the sounds of the pattering rain and the howling thunder. I sat in the back seat, bandaged up like a mummy. "Where are we going, Mr. Roger," I asked, watching the condensation form on the window, the raindrops cutting little streams through beads of water.

"The Wammy's House; it's an orphanage in Winchester. We're almost there, Matt," Roger replied, motioning his head towards the back seat.

Matt; it was at the hospital where the old man, Roger, addressed me as such. I guess because of my presumed uncertainty of the connection between me and the name, 'Mail,' he decided to give a common name like Matt.

There was a moment of stiff silence in the car before Roger spoke once more. "Why are you still holding the boy, Matt?"

Mason – his name is Mason. "He's very cold, Mr. Roger. I'm just trying to keep him warm." I wasn't going to give him up; I just couldn't bring myself to do such a thing, despite how much it needed to be done.

Roger sighed and looked straight onto the road. "We'll have to bury him at the orphanage, Matt. I still can't understand why you just didn't let the hospital take care of him." He took a moment to regain some composure; I could tell the smell of the cadaver was getting to him. "What is he to you?"

Everything…he's everything to me. "No one, really, he's just good company." Soon, the rain became the only audible sound. Everything returned to me, even though I only had 'amnesia' for a few hours; or was it just repression? Did I actually forget everything, or was it a choice…it was neither. Lying just came easier to me.

Carter and Autumn Jeevas – my parents, my wonderful parents; they were dead. They were the perfect pair of lovers that made the perfect pair of parents. Every bit of their love was sent to their two children, even the one they never really knew at all.

This carcass, this corpse, this boy cradled in my arms, Mason Jeevas, was my beloved little brother, only three years younger than me. I held him tight that night as well, the night my mother was killed. The convenience store was subject to robbery and my peace-loving mother took a bullet for the clerk that night, sacrificing her life for a man she never knew. She bled to death, shot right in the chest; Mason wasn't even a year old yet.

Father became ill soon after, but not with grief, with cancer. He sent Mason and I to his eldest brother's home, a year before that rainy night in the alley. "Please, Walton, please take care my children," he pleaded, down on his knees. My uncle took us in immediately.

"Mail, Mason…I love you," the last words my father said to us, tears strolling down his thinning cheeks.

Walton and Vanessa Jeevas, and their four children, Derek, Charles, Julie, and Winston; there couldn't have been a family filled with more malice.

For one year, I took the blows of abuse from my uncle and my cousins in attempts to protect my little brother, though he still suffered mentally. These children were evil, finding fun in mocking our dead mother and sick father.

"Just remember, Mail, your mother wanted to die…she was sick of raising you!" I never understood what drove my cousins to say such awful things.

I woke up every morning hoping to see my father's smiling face, ready to take us back home, completely cured from cancer. Unfortunately, my dreams shattered like glass once Derek's fist found its way to my stomach; it wasn't odd for me to hack up blood every now and then.

February 1st, 1997 – my seventh birthday. "Well, we're leaving now," Uncle Walton said to Mason and I, his entire family waiting beside the door.

"Where are you going?" I rarely spoke in that house, but it was my birthday and I gave myself the right.

"Nosy kid," Vanessa spat, looking me over like a squashed cockroach. "Why do you want to know?"

"It's my birthday."

The boys laughed. "Heh, that's right, Mail, it's your birthday today," Derek started, laughing with each spoken word. He narrowed his eyes at me, his nasty teeth spreading to make a smile. "Well, the boys and I have a very special present for you, right?"

The kids laughed and giggled as if to make light of the situation, but I knew whatever it was, this present was not a good one.

"How about it, Mail? Guess where we're going today."

I stood there, thinking only of the worst, but for some reason, I never expected it.

"My poor brother," Walton started. "Not even 33 years old and here we are, going to his funeral."

My eyes widened with rage and tears. Mason grabbed my hand, shaking wickedly.

"That's right, Mail," Charles said. "Happy Birthday, your father's dead!!!"

The next moment was full of impulse; I snapped. I charged at Charles, punching him countless times until I could smell the blood. Mason stood behind me, screaming, yelling for me to stop, that there was too much blood. Then uncle Walton started to attack me, trying to pry me from his son's bloodied body. Julie and Winston made their way towards Mason, and I heard him yell louder and louder until their blows completely silenced him.

My brother's ceased cry was a sign to attack more. I was being beaten by my uncle who was soon joined by Derek; he punched me square in the face, cracking my glasses and sending the shattered pieces into my left eye. I screeched in pain while my aunt cried in horror.

"My son, my son," she yelled holding the beaten Charles in her arms. I couldn't find anything thing else to do; Mason was hurt and I was overpowered by my uncle and eldest cousin. I fell limp to the ground with no alternative.

"We're going now!" Walton pulled me from the ground, the blood trailing from my eye, down my neck, all the way to my toes, before dripping to the ground. "And you're coming with us, brat," he said, staring at me with his one black eye, for which I was responsible.

The entire family walked out to the car, even Charles, whose damage paled in comparison to mine, was able to walk normally. Walton opened the trunk and tossed me inside, quickly followed by Mason; I quickly caught in my arms.

"It's about time we got rid of you filthy brats," Vanessa said, looking at me in disgust.

The night had just fallen and the storm clouds were rolling in. The drizzle started before the trunk slammed down tight, locking my brother and I in complete darkness.

I could feel Mason's fluttered breaths against my neck. "I'm scared, Mail," he whispered. "I think I'm dying."

"No, no you're not, Mason, not here, not now." I held him tighter to my chest.

"I can't breathe, brother, I can't breathe anymore." My shirt became wet with his tears, among other substances. I felt his breathing and his heartbeat slow down. "Mail…"

"No, Mason, don't go, you can't go!" I pleaded for him to live. I couldn't stand the thought of being left alone.

"I miss Papa. I miss him, Mail," he said.

I, too, began to cry. "Yeah, me too, Mason."

"I wish I could remember his face…"

I closed the only eye that could close, holding back the tears. This poor child, only four years old, was uttering his last words, breathing his last breaths, living his last moments.

"Mail…"

I opened up my right eye, only to be greeted by more darkness. "Yeah?"

"I love you, Mail…I really…do…"

His words were just loud enough for me to hear them. He died the second the trunk door opened to the city lights.

My uncle tossed us onto the street, to die, even though one of us already did. I let the rain clear away most of the blood, but it wasn't enough. All I could do was look up at the sky and hold my brother's dead body to my chest.

-

It was a tiny hole in the ground, but the right size for his body. Roger was crying but I wasn't. I was no longer Mail Jeevas; Roger helped me in deciding this. I was Matt now, a different existence, a different kid. The best thing to do was to forget the past and to being anew. Amnesia was the perfect excuse, since I was already building up to that effect.

Roger covered the body of the dead boy with mud, praying for his well being in heaven. "It's a shame he doesn't have a name," he said, covering his eyes with his palm.

All I could find in me to do was nod. "Yeah." I didn't know that boy anymore; he was nothing but a dead memory and returning to that life would only prevent me from moving on. I had to let go and this was the best way.

Roger led me to the front door of The Wammy's House; the boy's dead body lay behind the building, a large stone marking his spot. He opened the door and took my hand in his, guiding me through the hall.

"Most of the children are asleep by now," he whispered.

I stared at the ground, noticing the expensive tiling. This was clearly a place for the well-off, not place for Mail Jeevas, but he wasn't around anymore; this was Matt's home, now.

That night in the hallway was definitely a night to change my life. With one single, rude sentence, I found my reason for living.

"Who's that?" The loudest, most obnoxious voice in the world caught my attention and I lifted my head to stare at the frame of my destiny.

I've never been one for blondes, unless that was Mail's pet peeve, but Mello was the most beautiful person I've ever met; I could even die for him.

In fact, I did…


End file.
